


Painting the Clouds with Sunshine

by birdkeeperklink (speculating)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bonding Over Instagram, Chatting & Messaging, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Out of Character, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Underage Sex, Romance, Sansa is a Painter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 12:52:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16873257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speculating/pseuds/birdkeeperklink
Summary: Tormented painter Sansa is hired by the Lannisters to paint their portait, where she meets a trapped Jaime itching to see the world.





	Painting the Clouds with Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> This really isn't very good, but it was a little something I enjoyed writing. I originally posted it to my Tumblr quite some time ago, but I decided to post it here now in case anything happens to my account there.
> 
> Mind the tags - there is some frank discussion of past rape by a survivor.
> 
> The title is from a Bing Crosby song.

Sansa rolled her eyes as one of her subjects started fidgeting. Again.

“Stop. Moving.”

“But it itches!” King Joffrey whined. “And I’m bored! And it’s ‘stop moving, _your Grace_.’”

“Stop moving, _your Grace_ , or I’ll make you sit there for the whole portrait and not just a few photographs.”

He turned red. “You can’t talk like that to me! Mother, tell her she can’t speak to me like that!”

Sansa watched in amusement as the Lannisters struggled to hide their irritation. Tywin had already looked at his watch six times, and all of them were well aware that the delay was purely due to their king’s inability to sit still--well, and a slight delay at the beginning when Prince Tommen was late because he was looking for his cat and lost track of the time, but he was so sincerely sorry that nobody except his brother minded.

“Joffrey, darling, it’s best we get this over with,” Cersei said with a false smile. “The sooner we get done, the sooner you can go play your new video game.”

He perked up at that, and Sansa barely restrained her eyes from rolling. He sat still so she could get the last two shots, and that’s all she cared.

“Finally!” Joffrey yelled when she pronounced herself satisfied.

He stormed off, already tearing at the collar of the black and gold doublet his mother had forced him into, his Kingsguard scampering after him.

Sansa rolled her eyes openly then, turning to start printing the reference photos. She really preferred to work in Dorne, where she had studied and the light was always good, but Tywin wanted her to stay in the Red Keep until the painting was finished. He was paying her so handsomely that all of her usual objections died.

“Are all of you Northerners so disrespectful?” Cersei hissed after all the children and Lord Tywin had gone out.

Sansa forced a smile as she turned. “My apologies, your Grace, but I tend to forget myself in my studio. Social mores are a distraction from the creative process.”

It was a well-rehearsed line. She’d spent too long catering to self-important lords and ladies.

Cersei smiled back viciously. “Ah, yes, the egalitarian spirit of the starving young artist.”

The Queen had despised her before she ever arrived for reasons Sansa couldn’t fathom. She didn’t care to know--she just wanted to paint their stupid portrait, line her pockets with their money, and go back to painting sunsets in Essos or somewhere else beautiful and far away from the infighting of Westeros. Even home at Winterfell wasn’t safe from it anymore.

“They say you’re the best,” Tyrion piped up, obviously trying to smooth ruffled feathers. “Is it true?”

Sansa shrugged, retrieving the photos from the printer and clipping them to the wire she had hung next to the canvas. “I don’t know and I don’t care. I know that my work has become quite popular recently, but I couldn’t tell you why. My only concern is that I get paid for it.”

Tyrion looked delighted. “I like you. You remind me of a friend of mine.”

“And I like your money,” she said flippantly, concentrating now on her colour samples. “We should get along just fine.”

He chuckled and headed out. Cersei followed shortly after, whispering angrily in her twin’s ear.

Jaime Lannister hadn’t said a word to her. He had stared a lot, but he hadn’t said anything.

Sansa didn’t care what his problem was. She didn’t care what anyone thought.

She studied the golden family with impassive eyes and began holding up squares of red to try to match their cloaks.

 

Sansa was largely left to her own devices, which pleased her greatly. Tywin required her presence at a few galas and dinner parties so he could show off having commissioned one of the most popular painters in Westeros, but the food was good and the wine never stopped flowing, so she was able to bear it with minimal annoyance.

It helped that Tyrion and Jaime seemed to go out of their way to keep her company. Well, more accurately, their father had probably charged them with making sure she didn’t get too drunk and embarrass him in front of their guests. She had been annoyed at first, but their presence by her side seemed to enrage Cersei, so she let them stick by her without comment, and even made a slight effort to be personable to them.

By the fourth or fifth time, she realised she was actually starting to enjoy their company, at least for keeping the boredom at bay during these social functions.

“So why _are_ you working for us?” Tyrion asked one night as the two of them sat on the garden wall, watching the other partygoers--and watching Jaime drop grapes down the back of unsuspecting guests’ dresses. “It’s clearly not your love for your king or your burning desire to climb the social ladder to the very top of the House of Lords.”

Perhaps it was the wine, or the mellow breeze off the sea, or simply that she had got too comfortable here. Whatever the reason, Sansa was honest, her eyes unfocused with memory so that the torches in the garden looked like bright orange stars.

“I already tried climbing the social ladder, and it wasn’t for me,” she murmured, swirling the wine in her glass absently. “I was engaged to Lord Bolton’s bastard. I’m sure you remember him--he was a rising star in politics until that big scandal where everyone found out about his penchant for rape and torture and bear pits. On the night of our engagement party, he raped me and passed me around to his friends, because ‘all the popular girls give it up, that’s why they’re popular.’ The next morning, I told my father I wanted to break off the engagement and I enrolled in art school. I went as far away as I could get.” She rolled her neck, snorting. “If that was the way to the top, then I’d rather be on the bottom.

“Unfortunately, the bottom doesn’t pay very well,” she added ruefully. “I spend a lot of my time working with poor people--mostly orphans and mothers--and your father promised me a very large paycheck for this royal family portrait. Your Lannister gold is going to put food in a lot of hungry bellies.”

He stared at her, open-mouthed.

She took a swig of her wine and winced. “This wine is shit. Tywin must not care about these people much.”

She set the glass down and excused herself. If Tywin didn’t care, there was no reason for her to stay. She felt the need to paint.

 

“Your brother is silly,” she said brightly at the next party. “I like it.”

Tyrion shook his head. “Jaime has never been forced to face reality on equal terms.”

They watched as he army-crawled under the table, putting ice cubes in the shoes of the women unwise enough to slip off their heels under the table, including Cersei. Sansa knew she would be furious, and it pleased her greatly.

“You don’t call having to deal with your father being forced to face reality?” Sansa teased.

“Cersei and I had to deal with him, too,” Tyrion said defensively.

He wasn’t in a very good mood tonight, which was no fun for her.

She frowned. “Not the same way. Tywin lectures you about your lifestyle when it hits the tabloids and ignores you the rest of the time. He made Cersei marry King Robert, but after that, he’s pretty much ignored her and let her do as she pleases, as long as she doesn’t embarrass the family. From what you’ve told me about Jaime, it’s no wonder he’s never grown up. He wasn’t allowed to. He tried to train for the Kingsguard, you told me Tywin showed up and pulled him from the program. He tried to go into charity work, your father told him it was House of Lords or nothing, despite the fact that we both know he has no head for politics. He can’t make a move without your father’s permission, and most of the time, when he asks, the answer is no. Tywin even forbade him from going to the City Market yesterday for no reason! He may be forgiven much easier than you or your sister when he ‘embarrasses’ the family with his antics, but you also have a lot more freedom than he does. He’s practically been under house arrest for his entire life. It’s a miracle that he acts like a child pulling pranks instead of just going mad and shooting everyone.”

Tyrion considered that for a while. “When you put it that way, I am truly amazed at how cheerful he is most of the time. I always envied him for being the face of the family--just going out and looking pretty for the photographers. It never occurred to me that no one asked him if he _wanted_ to spend his life going through endless wardrobe changes and smiling for the camera.”

“Or attending endless boring parties,” she agreed. “His methods of entertaining himself may be childish, but they are certainly effective.”

At that moment, Jaime crawled out from under the table and dashed back to them, attempting to look as though he’d been there all along. Sansa nodded in greeting, but didn’t take her eyes off Cersei. She was preparing to get up, and Sansa pointed for the benefit of the Lannisters on either side. She held up her hand and counted down, prompting an eyeroll and a smirk from Tyrion, and a grin from Jaime.

_3…2…1_

Cersei screamed, drawing every eye in the room, and Jaime made his escape when his father immediately glared at him.

Sansa and Tyrion clinked their glasses and drank.

 

“You’re not finished with the painting yet, are you?” Jaime asked, looking hopeful. “You won’t be for a long time, will you?”

Sansa tried not to show him the pity she felt. Tywin had had him fitted with an actual house arrest ankle bracelet after the ice cube prank, and Jaime had been confined to his room without his phone or computer. She had been outraged and yelled at Tyrion when he shrugged it off, but finally he confessed that their father had confined Jaime many times throughout their lives, and while it was probably illegal now that he was an adult, Tyrion had been unable to find a soul in Westeros who would take action against Tywin on Jaime’s behalf.

She had taken it upon herself to buy him some magazines and a bag of chips and went to deliver them personally. She had been a bit timid, unsure of her welcome, but Jaime had put that fear to rest immediately.

“Sansa!” he cried, jumping up from his window seat. “Come in, come in! What can I do for you?”

It was pretty clear that he was desperate for company. The servants had been ordered to come only to deliver meals, and she was appalled to see that the room had been stripped down to the bare essentials.

She held the magazines up. “Actually, I came to do something for _you_. I just grabbed all the magazines that looked guy-ish, because I don’t know what you read. You know, motorcycles and guns and women in skimpy clothes.”

She handed them over and tossed the bag of chips on top, but she was unprepared for how touched he would be. His eyes had actually gone a bit teary for a moment.

“Why, thank you, Lady Sansa,” he said mockingly, but his voice was so soft that there was no sting in it. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t,” she said automatically, and then blushed, shrugging. “I mean, your dad’s a jerk, and--well, I don’t mind taking his money, but…you know, locking people up is like something out of the Long Night. What can I say, I’m a sucker for people in bad situations. I should probably go, I’ve got work to do.”

She had looked away self-consciously and started to go, embarrassed that she had tried so hard to make sure he knew she _didn’t_ care, which was sure to make it clear to him that she _did_ , but he stopped her.

“Please don’t go yet,” he said, an inch away from begging. “Tell me what’s happening out there--please? Just stay for a little while. I can’t get on Twitter and it’s killing me.”

She scowled. “Oh…all right. But only like ten minutes.”

He agreed immediately, but ten minutes had turned into two hours, and just once had turned into every day. He turned out to be a very kind and attentive audience once all of her attention was on him and not Tyrion. He asked about her charity work and genuinely seemed upset when she told him about the starving children--not that that was surprising, given that he had tried to pursue charity work as a career.

She learned a lot about him, too. To her amazement, he was actually fairly well-read, despite his struggles with dyslexia--which had also surprised her, as apparently Tywin had kept it a well-guarded secret, refusing to get his son the help he needed to learn to cope with the dyslexia for fear that it would make the family look weak. Jaime had a lot of different interests and things he wanted to pursue but couldn’t, because his life was not his own. She would have been frustrated and angry--Jaime was just sad.

“At least I’m still with my family,” he said philosophically. “Which is more than some people can say.”

That was probably the thing that surprised her most about him. Well, not when it came to Tyrion, because she thought he was funny and clever and great, but Jaime’s deep love for every member of his family, even his father, truly shocked her. She didn’t know how he could, but he did. He was the peacemaker, the glue that held them all together, and he didn’t even realise it. He just loved them and did what he could for them.

The worst part was that she didn’t believe his love and loyalty was returned, outside of Tyrion. The two brothers shared a bond and she could see that Jaime’s affection was very much returned by Tyrion, despite his comments about his elder brother’s maturity level. Cersei and Tywin, however, used him when they needed him, discarded him when they didn’t, and controlled and fought over him just for the sake of doing it. Jaime didn’t seem to notice, but Sansa did.

Part of the reason he was so desperate for her company in the first place was because he had no friends of his own--Tywin only allowed _alliances_ , and Cersei jealously drove off anyone who might have been a friend to Jaime. Sansa was aware that the two of them spending time together at social events was part of the reason Cersei hated her so much. It just so happened that she was the first person to refuse to be driven off by determinedly not caring.

Now she looked at this poor trapped rich man and was surprised by how much she regretted what she was about to say.

“Actually…the painting is nearly finished,” she admitted, wincing. “Your father has scheduled the unveiling ceremony for two weeks from tomorrow, as I’ll be done with the finishing touches well before then.”

Jaime’s face fell. “Oh. And then he’ll pay you and you’ll go somewhere else? Where will you go?”

“Meereen. I’ve been issued an invitation by Daenerys Targaryen. She’s the ruler there now, apparently, and when she heard about my art and my charity work, she asked me to come and paint a portrait of her and her dragons and do some work with the orphanages while I’m there. She plans to auction off the painting and donate the proceeds to the orphans.”

He looked like he’d swallowed a lemon, but he apparently couldn’t find anything in her reasoning to argue with, because all he said was, “Oh.”

She smiled. “But I made a Twitter account and an Instagram. When you finally get your phone back, you’ll see that @redwolfgirl followed you, @younglion. So we can stay in touch, if your dad ever gives your phone back.”

He brightened. “He will. I’m sure he’ll want me at the unveiling ceremony, since I was in the picture, so I’ll probably have all privileges restored the day before.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You’re too old to still be getting grounded. If you ever get tired of this dump, let me know and I’ll smuggle you out.”

He chuckled. “You mean you’d try, and I appreciate the thought, but I’m fine, really.”

She looked at him sadly for a moment. “Don’t ever change, Jaime Lannister.”

She left him looking confused.

 

The unveiling ceremony was just as pretentious as she expected it to be. Unfortunately, since it was her painting, Sansa was expected to take a more central role in this event. She did her best, since making a good impression could mean more commissions, which meant more money for her causes, but by the end of the afternoon, she was beginning to feel like a broken record.

Tyrion and Jaime must have seen her annoyance growing, because when she looked up from her conversation with Lady Who Cares from Somewhere Dumb, they waved to get her attention and held up their wine glasses. She excused herself prettily and made her way over, her shoulders slumping when Jaime stuck a glass in her hand.

“How much longer?” she moaned. “I’m tired of complimenting people’s cheekbones.”

Jaime almost choked on his wine, and Tyrion laughed.

“Complimenting people’s cheekbones?” he echoed.

“It’s my go-to flattery when there’s nothing else to say.”

“Ah.” Tyrion shot her a sly look. “So how are _my_ cheekbones?”

“Not as nice as your eyes,” she said with deliberate nonchalance, letting her gaze roam over the crowd. Giving sincere compliments was difficult enough without being caught at it.

“What about _my_ eyes, Lady Sansa?”

She whipped around and felt the blood drain from her face. Lord Baelish smiled when she took a step back from him. To her surprise, Jaime took a step, too--into Baelish, blocking him from following her. His normally youthful, cheerful face was hard and dangerous as he glowered at the older man, who merely smiled and looked past him, dismissing him.

“I thought you were in the Vale,” she spat, nerves and fear turning her hostile. She bristled when his smile widened.

“Now, is that any way to greet an old friend?” Baelish asked her silkily.

Her skin crawled. “You’re no friend of mine,” she said hoarsely, and fled back into the crowd.

There was no solace there, as Cersei caught her elbow in a vice-like grip, smiling her venomous smile.

“Where are you flying off to, little dove?” she asked sweetly, but through clenched teeth.

Sansa couldn’t find any words.

“What, nothing to say? No childish declarations about how much _you don’t care_?”

Her lips parted, but she remained silent, her mind blank with terror and adrenaline.

Cersei rolled her eyes. “I’ve no idea why Jaime is so infatuated with such a dull, stupid little girl. He claims it’s the conversation, but I think you must have… _other_ talents.”

Sansa shook her head. “No, I never…. We were just talking.”

One of her perfect brows rose. “Well, good. Because Jaime is _mine_ , and I don’t share what’s mine. Do you understand?”

Her stomach rolled and she thought she might vomit as the rumours that had abounded after King Robert’s death came flooding back to her. Rumours that Robert’s children weren’t really his--that they were the result of the Lannister twins being much too close. Rumours that had only gone away after Tywin had exposed Ramsay Bolton’s illicit activities and the media lost their minds with glee, the old rumours out of the public eye and forgotten.

But never disproved.

Sansa looked across the room at Jaime. He caught her eye, clearly worried, but whatever he saw in her face made him pale.

Cersei jerked her elbow. “Look at me.”

She obeyed, hardly breathing.

“I want you gone,” Cersei hissed. “If I catch you sniffing around Jaime again, I’ll crush your career, and I’ll grind your brother Robb into political dust, do you understand me?”

Sansa twisted her arm out of her grip. “I don’t want your brother. I don’t want anything you’ve touched. I’m leaving, my flight is in the morning, and with any luck, we’ll never see each other again.”

Cersei smiled. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

Sansa fled again, leaving the party entirely to retreat to the room that had served as her studio over the last eight months. Her flight wasn’t until seven the next morning, but she locked the door and started packing up her supplies anyway. She could have her things ready to go--maybe call a cab and stay at a hotel for the night. One closer to the airport and farther from the Red Keep, with any luck.

Her hands shook as she packed.

_I don’t care,_ she told herself. _I don’t care._

 

A servant brought her cheque when she sent word to Tywin that she was leaving. The old man was finished with her, so there was no message with it, just an envelope with a cheque inside for slightly more than he had promised. Apparently she had impressed him.

She didn’t care about that, either.

“Sansa!”

It was Tyrion, waddling down the steps to her and the cab. She waited.

“Sansa, you’re leaving early?” he asked when he reached her.

She shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “One night early.”

His tone turned serious. “What did Cersei say to you?”

Her stomach lurched at the thought. “She told me to stay away from her toys or she’d ruin my brother’s career.”

“She told you to stay away from Jaime,” he translated indignantly. “She doesn’t own him. He can see whomever he wishes.”

She shot him a disbelieving look. “Really? Then why isn’t he here telling me that?”

Tyrion looked away, confirming what she already knew--he had come alone to try to stop her because Jaime was with Cersei.

“You promised to stay in touch,” he said quietly instead.

“I never promise anything,” she shot back, and then sighed, softening when he looked up at her sadly. “Look, I like Jaime. He’s a nice guy after you get past the stage where he thinks it’s funny to leave a rotten banana in the back of your closet and wait to see how long it takes you to notice.”

Tyrion tried not to smile and failed.

“I consider both of you to be friends. But I can’t risk my whole life and everyone I love just to keep Jaime from going stir crazy. I’ve helped as much as I can, but he’s never going to be free until he decides to break free on his own. No one can do it for him.”

He nodded glumly, but couldn’t argue that. “At least keep in touch over social media like you said you would? Cersei disdains it, so she won’t know.”

She considered. “I already followed him on Twitter and Instagram, so I’ll stick with that, since I already told him I would.”

He was visibly relieved. He let her go when she said goodbye.

Sansa was still too shaken by Lord Baelish’s unexpected appearance to wonder why Cersei and Tyrion were suddenly so concerned about her relationship with Jaime, in their different ways.

The next morning, she cashed her cheque and flew to Meereen without a backward glance, glad to be getting far away from Baelish and King’s Landing.

 

Daenerys Targaryen was disappointing. She was just a typical entitled rich girl. The only thing Sansa really liked about her was her concern for others--unlike Tywin Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon, the last Targaryen worried about the welfare of the children she ruled over, and was concerned that everyone was treated fairly. Sansa could support that, even if she didn’t enjoy her company on a personal level.

That made Meereen more relaxing than King’s Landing, at least, and Sansa felt very accomplished even after a few days there.

That was also where she posted her first Instagram--a photo of the sunset on the bay, with the caption, “So beautiful here.”

She had felt some anxiety about posting it, although she wasn’t sure why. Jaime had followed her back right away when he got his phone back, but it wasn’t like Cersei could instantaneously know she had posted anything.

She had just finished posting the picture and was about to put her phone away when it buzzed twice in rapid succession.

**younglion likes your post.**

**younglion left a comment on your post:** “Wow, that is gorgeous! I wish I was there with you! ❤️”

Sansa wasn’t sure how she felt about that, either, and put her phone away without answering.

 

Jaime missed Sansa. That was the beginning, middle, and end of it.

He really hadn’t expected to like her. He was the one who had discovered her artwork when Tywin started looking for an artist to paint their family portrait. She had painted a portrait of her uncle, Edmure Tully, and had managed to make him look better than his usual appearance of having been smacked in the face with a fish. Further investigation had brought up a slew of portraits commissioned by the lesser nobility--and landscapes and animal portraits and beautiful studies of flowers and everything else in nature, paintings that were obviously her passion, since they were later purchased, but not commissioned. He’d been surprised to find a Stark with a talent for something nonviolent and creative.

She sold her paintings through a dealer, so he contacted the dealer and started buying up the ones he liked the most, and told his father they should hire her. He didn’t listen at first, but Jaime’s purchases had not gone unnoticed--nothing he did ever went unnoticed. He was a media darling. He hated it, but in this case, it paid off, because his father had gone ahead and hired her when owning one of her paintings became stylish.

He still hadn’t expected to like her after he met her. She had a chip on her shoulder, wore black nail polish, and dressed like she had never left university. She was grumpy and could be pretty rude.

But then he’d got to know her better at all the dull parties, and he had found it was all a front. Sansa protected herself the way Tyrion did, surrounding herself in a shell of apathy and hostile sarcasm to keep the world at bay. She had been hurt, and pretty badly. He didn’t need to know the details to understand.

He fell in love with her the day she brought him the magazines. He hadn’t asked her for them, and she didn’t want anything in return--she was just _being nice_. No one had ever gone out of their way for him without expecting something in return. That was when he realised she was a true friend, and he fell head over heels for the kind heart she hid from the world.

And that, of course, was when Cersei had to ruin it, like she always ruined everything that made him happy and didn’t include her. The fight they had after Tyrion informed him of why Sansa left early had been so loud and violent that their father came to silence them--but not before Cersei scratched Jaime’s face for declaring that he was through with her.

“I am not your toy!” he had shouted when Tywin had arrived, instantly making Cersei shut up. He was too far gone in his rage to stop and ignored Tywin completely. “I’m not a child! I am an adult, and I have just as much right as anyone else to have a friend without worrying that my sister or my father might retaliate by ruining her family or locking me in my room for weeks! If I can’t have _one friend_ that _I_ choose, then I may as well kill myself!”

That had alarmed Tywin enough that he took Jaime’s side, declaring the Starks off limits, and he had bought Jaime another new car to placate him. Jaime was pleased enough with his victory over Cersei to forbear from pointing out that Tywin had never let him learn to drive.

Equally to blame for Sansa’s abrupt departure, in Jaime’s eyes, was Lord Petyr Baelish. He had arrived in the Red Keep, spoken to Sansa, and she had fled. Jaime hated him for whatever he had done to make Sansa so fearful of him, and he made no secret of it. This resulted in Baelish quickly becoming a pariah among Lannister supporters, but unfortunately, he didn’t flee back to the Vale.

Jaime’s life had returned to the usual, an endless parade of making appearances at parties and grand openings and anything else the family needed a visible figure present for. He found it more dull than ever. His only joy was the daily posts from @redwolfgirl, far across the sea. Her Instagram was his window to the world as she saw it. She found beauty everywhere, and he was ashamed of his own Instagram--full of horrible selfies to promote various events that his father wanted him to share.

She “liked” but didn’t comment on any of them, and he didn’t blame her. There was nothing to say.

His Twitter, on the other hand, seemed to interest her. Jaime regularly promoted various philanthropic causes as he ran across them, posting links to places to donate. She occasionally informed him of a scam posing as a charity, but mostly she “liked” and retweeted his posts.

One day, Jaime got lonely and posted a different kind of selfie. It was old hat to everyone else by now, but he had never posted a bathroom selfie before. Tywin told him it wasn’t dignified, so he was always in a suit or polo shirt at some event.

Today, he didn’t care, and took a shot of himself in the bathroom mirror without a shirt, and the caption, “#mood.”

He got more likes than ever, and very flattering or downright scary comments--but not from the person who really mattered. He was lying on his bed, about to start feeling really sorry for himself when his phone let out the special ringtone he had assigned to private messages from her. It had never gone off before, and Jaime nearly knocked the phone across the room lunging for it.

**redwolfgirl:** Are you okay? You look sad.

He grinned, immediately warmed through and probably more excited than was really warranted.

**younglion:** I’m kind of lonely today. It’s raining so the charity football match I was supposed to go to got cancelled and Tyrion went off with Bronn somewhere that’s probably more fun than here. Where are you today?

**redwolfgirl:** Qarth. I thought it would be nice after Meereen, but it’s a lot dirtier. You can tell it’s a tourist city. There’s nothing to do for work or pleasure, unless you want to go on a pub crawl or spend all of your money in the casinos.

**younglion:** That sounds fun to me, but I’ve never been on a pub crawl or to a casino. So where will you be off to next? I’m guessing you won’t stay in Qarth long.

**redwolfgirl:** Pub crawls are really fun when you’re eighteen at university and your mates are around to provide some strength in numbers while you’re getting shit-faced, and later you all provide moral support for one another when it feels like you may never stop throwing up. Not advisable in winter, when passing out on the sidewalk could lead to freezing to death.

**younglion:** lmao 😂 Having trouble imaging you getting shit-faced and passing out on the sidewalk!

**redwolfgirl:** Believe it or not, I used to be fun.

**younglion:** You’re still fun, you just stand a chance of remembering it in the morning. 😘

**redwolfgirl:** Anyway, you’re too old for a pub crawl now. I’m too old for it, too. That’s one life experience you missed your chance at.

**younglion:** How will I live with the disabpointment.

**redwolfgirl:** Prozac?

**younglion:** lol 😁

**redwolfgirl:** I’m going to Braavos next. Arya is competing in a tournament with the other water dancer trainees. She said she doesn’t care if anyone comes to watch, but that means she really does care.

He chuckled and refrained from pointing out that Arya wasn’t the only Stark who operated that way.

**younglion:** Ah, I see. Will the rest of your family be there?

**redwolfgirl:** I doubt it. Father will never leave the North again after being in King’s Landing so long, and Mother won’t go anywhere he doesn’t go. Rickon is still in school, Bran is finishing his thesis and won’t talk to anyone, and Robb only cares about his political career. Jon might come if he’s granted leave from duty at the Wall, but he might not be able to afford the trip even if he could get leave.

**younglion:** I’d pay for him to go.

**redwolfgirl:** I’m sure that would go over well with your family.

**younglion:** Actually, my father would spin it for good PR, but I really don’t care if they woud like it. I’d do it anyway.

**redwolfgirl:** That’s really nice of you, but Jon wouldn’t accept it. He would think of it as charity or pity, and he hates that.

**younglion:** Oh, okay. Tell Arya I hope she wins.

**redwolfgirl:** Will do.

Jaime frowned. This conversation wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. Sansa had started out concerned and fun, but now he felt like she was pulling back. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting--maybe an invitation to come to Braavos? But she wasn’t offering, and now he wondered anxiously if she had just been checking on him out of kindness and hadn’t planned on an actual conversation.

He wasn’t used to feeling so uncertain when he talked to other people, and it left him awkward and more shy than he was naturally disposed to be.

**younglion:** I can let you go if you’re busy. I know how to entertain myself.

**redwolfgirl:** The Queen is probably waiting for you.

Jaime scowled at the phone. Now he was _really_ confused, and upset, and he didn’t like it.

**younglion:** What does Cersei have to do with anything? If she is waiting for me for some reason, she has a long wait ahead of her. I don’t want to talk to her.

There was a very long wait after that. He typed and erased three different things without sending them before she finally responded.

**redwolfgirl:** Why not?

He waited, but she didn’t send anything else.

**younglion:** Why don’t I want to talk to her?

**redwolfgirl:** Yes.

There were a lot of things Jaime could have said, but he didn’t know how she would react. He could say that she was a manipulative bitch and he had finally realised it, which was true. He could say that she had messed with his head for years and tricked him into becoming her personal sex slave from the time he hit puberty until he had finally broken things off between them after Robert died and the rumours about them cropped up, trying to protect both of them, since that was also true.

He went for the reason that was closer to his heart.

**younglion:** Because Tyrion told me she told you not to talk to me. She tried to take away the only real friend I have.

He bit his lip, barely breathing as he stared at the phone after the message sent.

She didn’t respond.

He typed and hit send before he could think better of it, and then cursed himself for being pathetic.

**younglion:** We are friends, aren’t we?

“Wow, Jaime,” he muttered, hitting his forehead with the butt end of the phone a couple of times. “Why didn’t you just send her a crying emoji while you were making yourself look like a loser?”

“Talking to yourself is a sign of insanity,” Tyrion said from the doorway, leaning against it with his arms folded.

Jaime jumped about a mile. “You have heard of knocking?”

“But you hear such interesting things when you enter a room unannounced,” Tyrion said, heading over to the liquor cabinet to help himself.

Jaime didn’t actually mind, since Tyrion was the only reason he kept a stocked liquor cabinet in his room in the first place.

“I thought you were out with Bronn,” he said, returning to his study of the unchanging phone screen.

“I was, but I got bored. We need some new whores in this city. Bronn was happy enough to see Ros again, so I left him to it.” Tyrion settled himself in the armchair nearest the bed. “And what about you? I thought you were taking a shower and getting dressed and going down to do…manly things that men do at the gym? I still don’t understand why you shower both before and after a workout, but then, I find exercise to be a strange cult for people who like to tell me about their cleanse diets. But here I find you, shirtless and your hair uncombed, lying on your bed and talking to your phone, but not actually _into_ the phone, and banging it on your head. Have you joined a _different_ cult in the four hours I was gone? Should I be worried?”

“I’m talking to Sansa,” he mumbled, and swiped to wake the screen back up when it darkened.

“But she’s not talking to you,” Tyrion surmised, sounding far too amused for Jaime’s taste.

“Shut up.”

“Now I have hurt feelings,” he said dryly, and sipped his brandy with little concern.

Jaime sighed and rolled on his side, closing and reopening the app. Nothing.

“Jaime, where is Sansa right now?” Tyrion relented, speaking slowly as to a child.

He looked up, frowning as he failed to comprehend the point. “Huh?”

Tyrion grinned, rolling his eyes. “Where. Is. Sansa? What was it last week, Meereen? Or was that the week before?”

“The week before,” he said automatically. “She was in Astapor last week to catch a flight to Qarth.”

“Ah, Qarth, then. What time is it in Qarth right now, Jaime?”

He froze for a moment as his brain struggled with the calculation. Then he blew out a breath and flopped onto his back again, letting his phone drop.

“Three in the morning…. Why am I such an idiot?”

Tyrion chuckled. “It was a deal struck in the womb--you got the looks, I got the brains. It’s too late to trade if you’re having regrets now.”

“I don’t want to trade, but at least I would have liked to have just a _bit_ of common sense. Like, maybe if I could be smarter than Tommen’s cat….”

“Nobody is smarter than Tommen’s cat, at least not when it comes to escaping and opening supposedly childproof caps. But you _probably_ have him beat when it comes to time zones.”

Jaime put both hands on his head, feeling thoroughly miserable. “Cersei was right, Sansa could never care about me. I’m too stupid and useless, and she’s so smart and talented.”

All teasing vanished from Tyrion’s face and his voice was sharp. “Don’t say that--don’t _ever_ say that!”

He sat up, startled. Tyrion was glowering at him fiercely, and Jaime suddenly felt ashamed, like a naughty child who’s been caught. He felt that way often, despite his insistence that he was _not_ a child, but not usually around Tyrion, which made it much more uncomfortable than normal.

“You’re not stupid and you’re not useless,” Tyrion went on, getting up to refill his brandy. “And Sansa _does_ care about you. You shouldn’t listen to Cersei and her rubbish--she’s just trying to make you come crawling back to her.”

He fidgeted. “But what if she’s right?”

“She’s not. Remember when she told you that your entirely inappropriate love for her was completely natural and you should have sex with her? Was she right about that?”

Jaime looked away. “It was a little more complicated than that….”

“I don’t care. I can never forget when I walked in on you two in the bathtub. I’m scarred for life. I should have stayed outside and pissed myself. My point remains--was she right that what you two were doing was okay?”

“No…turns out it’s illegal, with the only exemptions made for the royal family.”

“No kidding. And that’s not even touching on the fact that she got married to someone else and you two carried on anyway.”

Jaime watched him climb back on the chair and glower at him again. He looked so like their father sometimes that it was scary.

“I couldn’t help it,” he protested weakly. “I loved her.”

Tyrion tilted his head. “Loved? Past tense?”

He frowned at his hands, folded in his lap. “It’s hard to keep loving someone after you realise that all they do is make you miserable. Sometimes it seems like Cersei is only happy if I’m upset. I don’t think she ever really loved me.”

He couldn’t quite keep the pain out of his voice. He may not be in love with her anymore, but that didn’t make her cruelty stop hurting. She was still his sister, and the fact that she didn’t seem to care about him at all stung deeply after all of the loyalty and devotion he had given her over the years.

Tyrion softened. “I’m sure she did, when we were small. I think she still loves you now, deep down. She’s just forgotten how to show it like a well-adjusted human being. She’s too much like Father.”

“Well, I don’t love her anymore, so it doesn’t matter,” Jaime said, and checked his phone again.

Tyrion smiled into his glass. “You love Sansa,” he teased.

Jaime didn’t rise to the bait. “Yes,” he murmured.

Tyrion didn’t seem to know what to say to that and sipped his brandy silently.

 

**redwolfgirl:** Sorry, fell asleep! Of course we’re friends.

Sansa winced a little at her flippant, cheerful response to Jaime’s plaintive message, but she didn’t know how else to reassure him while not offering any deeper emotion. He was developing a dependency that she didn’t like--or had long ago developed it without her notice. Regardless of what he was doing or the time of day, he was the first one to comment if she posted anything, and he _always_ left a comment, even though she rarely commented on anything he posted. There were a disconcerting number of hearts on her most recent post in lieu of words.

She didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s happiness, and she was starting to feel responsible for Jaime’s. The tone of his Twitter posts when she hadn’t posted anything in a day or two could only be described as mopey.

Arya didn’t mince words when Sansa messaged her the next day.

**starkbitch:** You shouldn’t have started messaging him. That was stupid. Now he’ll probably text you every day.

**redwolfgirl:** I know I shouldn’t have, but I was worried about him. I mean, did you see that picture??

**starkbitch:** Yeah, I did. I now understand why Jaime Lannister is consistently voted Westeros’s most beautiful man in Seven Kingdoms Press. Hot af 🔥

**redwolfgirl:** Yes, he has abs. I meant did you see his face???

**starkbitch:** No, I didn’t look at his face, I was looking at his body. He should wax his chest, he’d look even hotter.

**redwolfgirl:** Thank you for objectifying him.

**starkbitch:** Glad I could help. So I take it you like the chest hair, since you got all prim? To each her own, I guess, but Gendry waxes and I like it.

**redwolfgirl:** That’s more than I needed to know, thank you. Will you please just look at the picture again and tell me you wouldn’t be worried?

**starkbitch:** Okay, I looked, and I don’t get it. He looks a little bummed, but not like he might kill himself. Just a bad day. Happens to everyone. I definitely wouldn’t have freaked out and messaged him at two in the morning, spazzo.

**redwolfgirl:** It wasn’t two in the morning for him. And maybe it’s just because you don’t know him as well as I do. He looks REALLY SAD in that pic. And he never looks sad, he’s almost sickeningly cheerful. He’s like a puppy who got turned into a human.

**starkbitch:** Whatever you say. Are you coming to the tournament, then? You said you might. Not that I care. Gendry will be there.

**redwolfgirl:** Yes, I’m coming. Jaime offered to pay for Jon to come, but you know how Jon is.

**starkbitch:** You told Jaime Lannister about going to see me compete???

**redwolfgirl:** He answers to just Jaime, you know, you don’t have to use his full name every time. I’ll know who you’re talking about, too, because we only know one Jaime. And what was wrong with mentioning the tournament? He asked me about my upcoming plans, and that’s all I’m doing.

**starkbitch:** Okay, WE don’t know any Jaimes, YOU know a Jaime. I’ve never met him and I don’t want to, he sounds like a whiny spoiled brat. The problem is that you don’t just tell people my business!

**redwolfgirl:** You have met him, you just don’t remember. You were 4 and we went to see Father and we met all the Lannisters. Tywin made you cry by staring at you too long, but Jaime gave you a lolly and you stopped. I’m deeply sorry, next time I’ll remember that your public tournament is obviously top secret and make up some kind of excuse.

**starkbitch:** If I was 4, you were 6, so how do you remember that? You probably imagined it or something. It doesn’t make him less whiny or spoiled.

**redwolfgirl:** I remember because I took lots of pictures with Mother’s camera and I was really proud of her trusting me with it. I took a picture of him giving you the lolly, you can look in the photo albums the next time you’re home if you don’t believe me.

**starkbitch:** What did he give you?

**redwolfgirl:** A smile? There’s a picture of him just smiling at the camera, too, if I recall correctly. I need to look at those again, too.

**starkbitch:** Well, I don’t care, I want him to give Jon the money so he can come and watch me fight.

**redwolfgirl:** He wants to, but you know Jon won’t accept it.

**starkbitch:** He will if I ask. I’ll get this all sorted, you’ll see.

**redwolfgirl:** If you hate Jaime so much, why should he pay for something to make you happy? That’s not fair.

**starkbitch:** Because he owes me for the suffering of having to put up with you talking about him all the time. L8r. 😜

Sansa scowled at her phone. “I don’t talk about him _all_ the time.”

There was no answer, of course, because she was alone in her hotel room.

She was heading out to see the legendarily-creepy House of the Undying today, which was one of the main tourist attractions in Qarth. People were always claiming to have seen visions or visited with dead relatives while inside. She thought it was all hokum, but her flight to Braavos didn’t leave until tomorrow and she didn’t think she could bear to spend all day staring at the walls of her hotel room.

As usual, the streets were packed with vendors hawking cheap junk, mostly fake medallions and long necklaces made of gaudy plastic beads, and “authentic” Dothraki hair bells and skins made into useless little purses. Sansa ignored them and dodged the pickpockets with the ease of practice--Dorne taught a person a lot of skills for dealing with unsavoury crowds.

The crowds only thinned a little after she got past the gates to the grounds--only licensed vendors here, and security rooted out the pickpockets, so it was at least more relaxed. Most people seemed to be hanging around the cafés and gift shops, so Sansa found herself nearly alone when she reached the top of the stairs and stood before the tower. It wasn’t impressive to look at, made of the same old tan stone as the rest of the city, and rather featureless.

She didn’t do many selfies, being more interested in posting pictures of the beauty she saw around her, but this was one of the rare cases where nothing stuck out at her, so she took a picture of herself with the tower looming in the background.

“Going into the House of the Undying. If you don’t hear from me in two days, send a search party,” she typed, amused by how freaked out other people got about this place.

She was about to step inside when her phone buzzed three times.

**younglion likes your post.**

**younglion left a comment on on your post:** “I’ll have serch&rescue on standby. 😉”

**younglion left a comment on on your post:** “You look more beautiful than usual today. ❤️”

Sansa shook her head and was well inside the tower before she realised she was smiling.

The inside was pretty boring, too, but the real reward was when she tweeted afterwards.

**redwolfgirl:** Wow, managed to get out of the #HouseoftheUndying w/o dying of boredom.

**younglion replying to @redwolfgirl:** Phew! Looked it up while you were inside & got scared. #sweetrelief

Sansa giggled to herself and headed back to her hotel in a much better mood.

 

Arya won the tournament, which was exciting for her, and Jon was able to come between getting leave and a mysterious “bank error” that paid for his round-trip ticket. Sansa was convinced it was all Jaime’s doing, though he denied it. Jon kept his money with the Iron Bank, and they weren’t known for making errors, let alone errors in the customer’s favour.

She had a good time until the last night when the three of them went out for a celebratory dinner. Things were going well until the desserts came, and for some reason, she felt the need to say what she was thinking. She could only attribute it to her good mood and the relaxed atmosphere.

“Jaime loves chocolate cheesecake,” she said cheerfully. “I’m sending him a picture to make him jealous.”

She was focused on her phone for a few minutes, so she didn’t realise Jon was staring at her soberly until she had hit send.

Her eyes widened. “What? What did I do?”

He looked reluctant, but whatever was making him feel that reluctance didn’t stop him. “You talk about him a lot. Jaime Lannister.”

Sansa stared, her mouth open. She glanced at Arya, but she was staring at Jon, too--not with shock, but with a wince, like she didn’t expect this to end well.

She returned her gaze to Jon. “No, I don’t.”

“You do,” Jon said lowly. “You’ve mentioned him eighteen times just at this meal. I’ve spent the last three days with you and I feel like I’ve met him myself.”

She felt her face heat. “He’s my friend. It’s just like you talking about Sam or Arya talking about one of her friends.”

His brows rose. “Is it?”

She straightened in her seat, ignoring her phone when it buzzed. “What are you implying?”

“Arya’s shown me some of the comments the two of you have made to each other on ‘social media,’” he said, his distaste for it evident. “The way the two of you flirt, you’d think it was--”

“ _Flirt_?!” Several people looked their way and Sansa made an effort to lower her voice. “We’re not _flirting_. It’s not like that.”

“I think it is,” he said, almost sadly. “I think he flirts with you constantly, and I think you flirt back whether you realise it or not.”

“We’re _friends_ ,” she emphasised again. “Of course we say nice things to each other.”

“Nice things.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “All right then, what did you just say to him about the cheesecake?”

She flushed immediately. “You’ll take it all wrong….”

They just looked at her. Sighing, she picked up her phone and read off what she’d written.

“Looky what I got, aren’t you jealous? I would save you some if you were brave enough to brave Braavos, ha ha ha, wink face.” She scowled defensively. “It was just a friendly joke, _not_ flirting.”

Jon was unmoved. “And what did he respond?”

She bit her lip, her face flaming. “I….” She swallowed and read it. “ _Very_ jealous! Just say that you want me to come and I’m there, cheesecake or no cheesecake, although it certainly sweetens the deal. …Heart emoji,” she added miserably. “You’re blowing it out of proportion.”

Arya poked determinedly at her dessert when Sansa looked to her for support.

Jon shook his head, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. “Look, I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I know you can take care of yourself. I just want you to be careful. You don’t give your heart away easily, and I don’t want to see it broken again. He may not act it or look it, but Jaime Lannister is nineteen years older than you. He’s got experience with playing people. And he _is_ a Lannister. They aren’t trustworthy, and I’ve never heard of any of them putting their family second for anyone. I just don’t want to see you get hurt when his sister snaps her fingers and he goes back to her.”

Sansa had lost her appetite. “I haven’t given my heart away to anyone. So you don’t need to worry.”

She was quiet for the remainder of the meal. Jon had to go straight to the airport, so they said their goodbyes, but Arya walked her back to the hotel.

“I know it’s not my place to say,” she said carefully when they had arrived and Sansa was digging out her room key. “But I think Jon’s right. Maybe not about Jaime not being trustworthy, but about you giving your heart to him.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, sighing. “Not you, too.”

“You can’t see yourself, or hear yourself,” Arya said, refusing to be put off. “You light up when you see a message from him. You talk about him all the time, and you’re _happy_ when you do. I haven’t seen you happy-- _really_ happy since the summer you went and stayed with Aunt Lysa in the Vale. But you _are_ when you talk about Jaime. It doesn’t matter what I think of him if he really makes you happy.”

She looked away for a moment, unsure of what to say.

“And…as much as I still think he’s a whiny, spoiled brat….” Arya sighed. “He’s really good to you. I was really skeptical at first, but you two have been messaging on Twitter and Instagram for over a year now, and he always has nice things to say to you--and so fast that there’s no way it’s a rehearsed response. I mean, sometimes I see the posts just as quick as he does, but I’m still thinking about what I want to say when he answers. If he’s as sweet to you in person as he is online, well…to be honest, it kind of makes me want to vomit, but I also won’t have to worry about killing him for mistreating you.”

Sansa slowly smiled. “Thanks, Arya. That’s really sweet of you.”

She pulled a face. “Don’t get all sentimental on me in public, someone I know might see us.”

She laughed and they went their separate ways.

It bothered Sansa, though, even after she was finished cleaning up and readying for bed. She couldn’t _really_ be in love with Jaime. Whatever her family saw was really just some kind of infatuation. She had only spent about eight months in Jaime’s company, and only towards the end had they really talked, when he was under house arrest for a little over a month. All of their contact since then had been over social media, which didn’t really count.

It wasn’t realistic, she decided. People only fell in love that fast in fairy tales. Her life was far from a fairy tale. So was Jaime’s, for that matter--unless he was supposed to be the damsel locked away in a tower, in which case his life was actually surprisingly similar to a fairy tale, minus the happy ending where a knight rode up to save him.

And Jaime himself was another matter altogether. Suppose Jon was right and he was flirting--it didn’t automatically follow that he was in love with her. He was very insistent that they were friends. And even if he did love her, that would end the second he found out how damaged she was.

But it didn’t matter, because she wasn’t in love with him anyway.

Was she?

She pulled the covers up and turned out the lights before she picked up her phone.

**redwolfgirl:** Jaime?

**younglion:** I’m here, Sansa. ❤️ Are you okay?

**redwolfgirl:** I can’t sleep.

**younglion:** You ate too much cheesecake! 😉

Sansa burst out a laugh, warmed and comforted--but given the questions keeping her awake, it only served to increase her turmoil when the amusement faded.

**younglion:** Seriously, though, is there anything I can do? Recite back a history of the noble houses, maybe? That’ll knock you right out, I speak from experience.

**redwolfgirl:** And now I know why you flunked history.

**younglion:** lol 😂 Guilty

**redwolfgirl:** I had dinner with Jon and Arya, and they said some things….

**younglion:** Do you want to talk about it? ❤️

**redwolfgirl:** Not really. Jaime, tell me something good.

**younglion:** Something good? About anything in particular?

**redwolfgirl:** No, just something that will make me calm and happy.

There was a long pause. She wondered if the problem was too many ideas or not enough.

**younglion:** At this very moment, somewhere in the world, there is a little girl, maybe even a little girl you saved by feeding her when she was starving, and she’s looking at a Sansa Stark original and thinking “I want to be just like her when I grow up.”

Tears sprang to Sansa’s eyes at the unexpected kindness--at the realisation that his “something good” was about her.

Maybe they were right. Maybe he did love her.

**younglion:** Sansa? Did you fall asleep?

**redwolfgirl:** Not yet. You’re too sweet. I don’t deserve you.

**younglion:** You’re a little mixed up, I think, because you’ve definitely got that backwards. I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you. ❤️

She took a deep breath. It was a private message and he was already being emotional with her. Now was as good a time as any.

**redwolfgirl:** Jaime, do you love me?

**younglion:** Yes. ❤️❤️❤️

She was taken aback by how immediate his response was. She had expected hesitancy and evasion, not such open frankness. And she still didn’t know how she felt.

Perhaps if she saw him in person again it would help her come to a conclusion.

**redwolfgirl:** I have to return to Westeros, to the Vale for my aunt’s funeral. Will you come with me?

**younglion:** Of course I will. ❤️ I’m sorry about your aunt, I hadn’t herd yet.

**redwolfgirl:** Thank you. I’m afraid I’ll need someone I can trust there. I really don’t care all that much, she hated me, but I want to support my mother, I know it’s going to be hard for her. She loved that woman even after she went batshit insane.

**younglion:** Lol, I understand. ❤️

**redwolfgirl:** I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep, so I’m going to paint. Is that okay?

**younglion:** You do whatever you need to do. Let me know the details for meeting you for the funeral later?

**redwolfgirl:** Absolutely. Good night, Jaime.

Her finger hovered over the send button, but after a long hesitation, she decided to add an emoji first.

**redwolfgirl:** Absolutely. Good night, Jaime. 😙

His response was much quicker than hers, as usual.

**younglion:** 😀 Good night, Sansa 😙❤️❤️❤️

She signed off. That had felt…nice. _Really_ nice. She hadn’t realised she felt lonely here in her hotel room until she talked to Jaime and the feeling vanished, replaced by a warm sense of contentment.

_He_ did that. _He_ made her feel this way. Arya was right, she couldn’t even remember the last time she felt like this.

And he was coming to the Vale, just for her, without asking his family for permission first. They would probably be livid--he always had somewhere he was supposed to be. A quick search turned up immediate results--yes, he was supposed to be presiding over a golf tournament, two ribbon cuttings, and three different dinner parties the week of the funeral.

She wondered if his father would make him cancel with her to attend those events.

Curiosity spurred her on. This search was a little more difficult, but eventually, she came to the conclusion that Jaime hadn’t been permitted to leave King’s Landing in almost twenty years. He had run away to the Kingsguard training centre at Harrenhal when he was younger, only to be arrested and dragged back to King’s Landing by Tywin a week later. He had grown up at Casterly Rock from birth until age four, when his mother died, and Tywin had all of his children brought to King’s Landing.

And that was it. He had been a virtual prisoner in King’s Landing and its immediate environs for the vast majority of his life.

He would probably cancel on her, she thought, her mood spiralling.

That was enough. She needed to paint. Something--anything. It had been a long time since she did any of what she thought of as “dissociative painting,” where she turned her brain off and just painted, and found out what she had painted when she was finished, but she decided to do it tonight. She cracked a window and turned on the lights and just painted, trance-like, thinking of nothing.

The morning came and tears came to her eyes. She was doomed, utterly and completely.

She had painted Jaime.

 

“You can’t just take off without notice like this, you have responsibilities--”

“I’m sure you can find someone else in the Lannister family willing to smile and look pretty for a week,” Jaime said flippantly as he slipped his jacket on, curiously unaffected by his father’s rage for the first time he could recall. “And you leave me no choice but to take off without notice. If I had asked, you would have said no, and you would have done whatever was necessary to prevent me from going anyway.”

He picked up his suitcase and shouldered past Tywin, heading confidently down to the cab waiting for him. It was false confidence, of course, because in the back of his mind, he was still afraid of being humiliated again--of the City Watch showing up to slap handcuffs on him and cart him off to King’s Landing again, as they had so long ago. He could just imagine them barging in during the funeral.

Tywin caught up with him after he had put his suitcase in the trunk, slapping a hand on the door before Jaime could open it.

“What can I say to convince you to stay?”

Jaime sighed. “Father, it’s one week and then I’ll be back. Sansa needs me. I can’t let her down,” he said, willing his father to understand.

“ _I_ need you _here_ ,” Tywin snapped. “Doing what I have charged you to do!”

He shook his head slowly, the cold realisation pooling in his stomach. He was just property to his father--like the servants, and the guards, and the gardeners, and everyone else he paid to do what he said. He didn’t care if Jaime was happy. He only cared that he _performed_.

“Goodbye, Father,” he murmured, and opened the door, forcing Tywin to step back.

He didn’t look back to see his father fuming as the cab pulled away. Instead, he called Tyrion.

“Aren’t you still in the driveway?” Tyrion answered, sounding amused.

“Just pulled out onto the boulevard, actually, but I need your help, and quickly.”

He sobered immediately. “What do you need?”

“I need you to pack up my things and put them in storage somewhere outside of the city. I also need you to pull whatever strings you need to pull to keep Father from having me dragged back to King’s Landing again,” he said lowly, attempting to keep his panic at what he was doing under control.

“The first is done, the second is a little more difficult, but I’ll do what I can.” Tyrion paused. “Jaime, are you sure about this?”

He laughed, slightly hysterical. “No? But I can’t do this anymore. I want to see the world, I want to get married and have a family of my own, and I realised today that he’s never going to let me do any of that because I’m too valuable as a string to dangle. I’m just a tool to him, just like I was with Cersei, and….”

He wiped his cheeks quickly when he realised he was crying, falling silent and biting his lip to stop his chin wobbling.

“You’ve never been a tool to me, brother,” Tyrion said softly.

He nodded, realised Tyrion couldn’t see him, and mumbled, “I know.”

“Go to the funeral,” he went on, gentle and warm. “See Sansa. Try to relax. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Okay. Okay.” He tried to breathe deeply. “Thank you, Tyrion.”

“Any time. Tell Sansa I said hello. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he added lightly.

Jaime chuckled to acknowledge the effort. “I won’t. And I’ll tell her.”

They said goodbye and he did his best to relax. It was difficult when he was worried about being stopped at any moment. It also didn’t help when he got to the train station and realised he had no idea how to buy a train ticket. Fortunately, there was an attendant who very kindly helped him, although she looked at him with such pity that he suspected she thought he was mentally handicapped. He didn’t mind too much, since it meant he got help figuring it out and would be able to do it on his own next time.

Equally nerve-wracking was finding the correct platform and making sure he got on the right train. After that, though, he found he was able to relax some, as actually riding the train and watching all the new scenery go by was quite fun. When he had run away to Harrenhal as a youth, he had hired a cab to take him, and his father never used the train, so he had been brought back by car as well. He was too young to remember whether or not they had taken the train when they first moved to King’s Landing, but he doubted it.

It was a lot faster than he’d thought it would be, too--he had planned to go hungry on the train, but they arrived at the station for the Eyrie just after lunchtime. He grabbed his suitcase and debarked with renewed nervousness. He had no idea where he was going or how to figure it out.

He didn’t end up having to worry about it for long.

**redwolfgirl:** Are you off the train? Waiting for you outside the station. I rented a car.

He quickly answered in the affirmative and went out the main entrance. A familiar redhead was leaning against a little black sedan, but she straightened and waved when she spotted him. Grinning with relief, Jaime trotted over.

For one awkward moment, he wondered how to greet her, but Sansa removed the difficulty by hugging him. He hugged back and felt his tension melting away. She smelled like vanilla and some kind of spice he wasn’t familiar with.

She pulled back smiling. “Thank you for coming.”

“I was glad to come,” he assured her.

Her smile faltered and she touched his cheek suddenly. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve…been crying.”

He felt the tell-tale sting in the end of his nose and blinked rapidly to stem the fresh tears before they started. “I’ll tell you about it on the way to the Eyrie?”

She agreed immediately. They stowed his suitcase in the trunk beside hers and he waited until she had pulled out of the parking lot to speak.

“My father caught me packing this morning,” he said, staring out the window. “He forbade me to go. So I went anyway, and I asked Tyrion if he would get my stuff out of King’s Landing. I’m not going back.”

She was quiet for a few minutes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to cause a rift between you and your family….”

He shook his head. “You didn’t do anything. Except maybe make me realise that my father has just been using me my whole life--and as much as it hurts, I’m glad I know now. I want to do things _I_ want to do for the first time in my life. I want to travel, and I want to eat junk food and watch crappy television on the weekends, and I never, ever want to host another fancy party ever again, and I want to go to the grocery store wearing sweatpants because I’ve run out of milk instead of sending a servant and only going out when I look perfect.”

“Okay, that last one is a really odd goal, but I don’t see why not,” Sansa said reasonably. “But what are you going to do about money? Those of us who aren’t Lannisters generally have to work in order to make money and use that money to pay for goods, services, and places to live.”

He felt his face heat. “Those of you who aren’t Lannisters probably also didn’t inherit a sizeable fortune from your grandfather,” he said sheepishly.

“Ah…no, no, we did not. And you’re sure your father can’t touch it or block your access to it?”

“I’m sure. My grandfather wasn’t very sharp or cunning, but he knew what my father was like. He set up accounts for each of us grandchildren with the Iron Bank specifically so that my father couldn’t touch them or interfere. It’s not enormous, but it’s enough to live comfortably for many years. I would still like to work and contribute to society in some _useful_ way, for a change, but….”

Her brows rose. “But?”

Jaime turned back to the window, shamefaced. “But I don’t know how to _do_ anything,” he admitted quietly.

“Sure, you do,” she said encouragingly. “You’ve read about all kinds of things, you’re a man of the world….”

“I don’t know how to drive, that’s why I took the train, and I didn’t know how to buy a ticket, so I had to ask for help….” He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I’ve read a lot, but I’ve never been anywhere--I don’t know how to _do_ anything.”

She was silent for so long that they reached the Eyrie and checked in with security before she answered. She put the car in park after pulling into a space in the underground garage and turned in her seat to face him.

“We’ll figure something out. After the funeral is over, I’ll help you sort things out. I promise,” she added, serious and gentle.

He tried to smile. “Thank you. I wish I didn’t need it, but….”

She reached out and squeezed his hand. “It isn’t your fault, Jaime. I know it’s scary right now, but I really believe you can do this. And…I’m proud of you.”

His smile instantly became natural, a great weight lifting from his chest, and he nodded his thanks.

She smiled back. “Now, let’s go face _my_ family.”

 

Sansa plastered a smile on her face as they entered the sitting room. Her family looked up, grim as always, but she thought she saw her parents stiffen when their eyes settled on Jaime. She pretended not to notice, crossing to hug her mother.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she said. “Do they know what happened yet?”

“They’ve ruled it a suicide,” Catelyn said in a voice roughened with tears. “What is _he_ doing here?”

Sansa set her jaw, exhaling slowly. “Jaime is here because I asked him to come and be with me during this difficult time,” she said, formal and deliberate so there was no chance of misunderstanding her.

Catelyn met her eyes then, clear surprise flashing at Sansa, the question asked in the quirk of her brow. She nodded once, almost imperceptibly, in answer. Her mother looked away with barely concealed disappointment, but she was much more courteous when she raised her eyes to Jaime again.

“My apologies, ser. You are of course welcome here. I’m afraid I am not at my best currently.”

Jaime bowed with perfect formality and courtesy--Sansa wasn’t surprised, given that he had spent his entire life performing such social rituals, but she was pleased that he overlooked her mother’s initial rudeness.

“I understand, Lady Stark. I am most sincerely sorry for your loss, my lady, and I am at your disposal should you require my services.”

She accepted the courtesy politely.

Her father, however, was not so kind. He rose to his feet with his usual grim countenance coloured by hostility.

“Lannister,” he said curtly.

Jaime didn’t rise to the bait. “Lord Stark,” he said with another polite bow. “It is good to see you again, though I wish the circumstances were more pleasant.”

Sansa bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling. Jaime was most certainly _not_ happy to see her father again--he had once described spending time around him as being like undergoing a long dental surgery while one of your primary school teachers stood to the side and scolded you for not brushing.

Ned’s eyes narrowed and he didn’t answer, undoubtedly searching for some hidden motivation. He had tussled with Tytos and then Tywin Lannister too many times during his long tenure in the House of Lords, and he had never been fond of Cersei after she married Robert and their marriage proved less than happy. She hadn’t realised that his dislike extended beyond politics and friendship and on to include the entirety of the family.

Robb hadn’t spoken, either, and Sansa lost her temper. She couldn’t confront her father, but her brother was another matter.

“By the gods old and new, Robb, we share the same parents, so I _know_ you were raised with better manners than this,” she said, glaring at him. “Stand up and say hello! You’re shaming me, and our family.”

Robb stared at her, taken aback. Sansa wasn’t known for standing up for herself even within their family--but this wasn’t standing up for herself, it was standing up for Jaime, who was so brave and kind to come here.

Bran and Rickon exchanged a glance and scrambled to their feet, bowing clumsily.

“Lord Jaime,” they echoed, and then seemed lost for words.

“Erm…hullo?” Bran finished, wincing.

Catelyn looked pained, but Jaime burst out laughing, his sides still shaking as he returned their bow, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Lord Bran, Lord Rickon,” he said, tight with suppressed laughter. “It is a _very_ great pleasure to meet you.”

They relaxed, smiling at having got through that painful bit of courtesy, and looked to Sansa for approval. She smiled and opened her arms, and shortly was squeezed between them in a desperate hug.

“You’ve been away too long,” Rickon complained.

“Stay in Westeros for more than a week this time,” Bran said, muffled by her hair.

“I agree with them,” Jaime put in softly. “You _have_ been away too long.”

Sansa smiled at him over Rickon’s shoulder. “Well, maybe I’ll stay a little longer this time.”

That alone instantly seemed to dispose her mother to be kind to Jaime, because she crossed to the sideboard and held up a glass.

“May I interest you in some wine, Lord Jaime?” she asked much more warmly than before.

He joined her at the sideboard with a smile and a nod. “Please, Lady Stark--just Jaime. And a little wine would be lovely, thank you.”

He winked at Sansa and she grinned back as her younger brothers dragged her to a chair to begin regaling her with tales of their latest exploits.

Ned and Robb left, murmuring to each other, but she found she didn’t care.

 

Jaime was a constant presence at her side, which she was doubly grateful for when she realised that Lord Baelish was back in the Vale. She had gone white, feeling faint, when he came down to greet them, and instinctively clutched at Jaime’s hand. He had glanced at her before lacing their fingers together.

The gesture had not gone unnoticed by Baelish, who was visibly annoyed. They held hands whenever he was around as a result. Gradually, that bled into when he _wasn’t_ around, too, and she found she didn’t mind at all. Rather the opposite.

The funeral itself was normal for such affairs. Sansa enjoyed the time spent with her mother and her younger brothers. Ned and Robb were apparently refusing to speak to her, so she spent more time with Jaime. Even if she hadn’t enjoyed his company, it was the only way to make sure she wasn’t alone with Baelish.

She and Jaime were lounging on one of the balconies a couple of days after the funeral, enjoying the mist cloaking the valley and the ocean from view. They were in separate chairs, but at one point during the morning, Jaime had reached out, his hand open halfway between them, and she had placed her hand in his and left it there.

They hadn’t heard a peep from King’s Landing all week, and they were both content. The sense of peace was new to her.

“Where should we go next?” she asked without thinking about her wording. “I did say I would stay in Westeros longer this time, but I don’t want to stay in the Vale.”

He shot her a delighted grin. It took her a moment to realise it was because she had said “we.”

“I don’t know,” he said brightly. “There are so many places I’ve never been and I want to see them, but I don’t know what you’ve already seen.”

She opened her mouth to assure him that it didn’t matter, she didn’t mind revisiting places she’d already been, but that was when Lord Baelish chose to announce his arrival, stepping out of the shadows.

“And here I thought the Vale was growing on you,” he said in that _way_ he had that turned her blood to ice and made her hair stand up. “You seemed so much happier than the last time you were here.”

She didn’t answer, staring at him coldly to try to mask her fear.

His smile widened and his eyes flicked to Jaime. “Isn’t it about time for you to run back to King’s Landing and your sister’s skirts, little cub? I would like to speak to Sansa alone.”

She felt Jaime bristle and tightened her hand on his, stilling him.

“No,” she said simply.

Baelish looked at her with blatant amusement. “No?”

She swallowed, feeling herself tremble, but she was determined to be brave. If Jaime could walk out on his father, she could face down Petyr Baelish--the last of her tormentors who wasn’t in prison.

“That’s right, I said _no_. I understand it’s a word you have difficulty comprehending,” she said, her voice thick with meaning.

His smile shrank. “Little girls don’t always mean it. They tease and flirt and say no when they mean yes.”

“I’m sure they cry and beg you to stop when they mean yes, too,” she said flatly.

It went deathly quiet. Baelish had stopped smiling now, and she could feel Jaime’s stare. She didn’t dare to look at him--she couldn’t risk losing her nerve at the horror no doubt gracing his face.

Baelish let out a nervous laugh. “That’s not how I remember it.”

“Then you have an active imagination,” she said, her tone remaining flat and cold despite the tears gathering in her eyes. “Or you’re getting senile in your old age. So let me remind you--I _said no_ , and then I _locked my door_ , and then when you broke in anyway, I said no _again_ , and you kept touching me, and when I screamed, you pulled a knife and told me that you would hurt me and kill everyone I cared about if I screamed again or if I breathed a word about it to anyone, and so I stopped and you had your way with me and I cried the whole time, begging you to stop hurting me. If that is your idea of consensual sex, then allow me to remind you _also_ that I was twelve at the time and that what you did to me is illegal and considered legally nonconsensual even if I was throwing myself at you, which I was not.”

It was Baelish’s turn to pale, glancing at Jaime with distinct anxiety. Jaime was giving him such a stare that it made Sansa’s neck prickle just seeing it. Only her touch seemed to be holding him in place. She held on tightly.

“You’ve held on to that for so many years, why bring it up now?” Baelish asked, a bit hoarse with fear.

“Because I never want to see you again. I want you to stay far, far away from me. I want you to stay far away from my family. I don’t want you to contact any of us. Oh, and Princess Myrcella is in the age range you like, isn’t she? Stay away from her, too. In fact, why don’t you just stay here in the Vale and rot? Because if you displease me in any way, I swear by the old gods and the new that I will gather all of my fellow Baelish victims and I will go straight to the press. You know how _kindly_ Tywin Lannister looks on rapers--you remember Ramsay Bolton, I’m sure?”

He twitched, and Sansa knew. She smiled coldly, the tears clearing.

“That was your idea, wasn’t it?” she said, and his expression only confirmed it. “You knew what he was, and _you_ told my mother he would be a good match for me. Was it funny to you? Did you get yourself off thinking about Ramsay fucking me while I screamed for mercy? About him letting his friends use me like a party favour?”

Jaime actually jerked, a full-body spasm that had him half out of his chair. He was still holding her hand as gently as ever, but his free hand was clenched into a white-knuckled fist.

She tugged until he was back in the chair, shooting her an apologetic glance when she shook her head at him.

Baelish looked relieved. “Sansa, I swear to you--I did suggest the match to your mother, but I didn’t know--”

She looked away with a disgusted hiss. “Spare me. Get out of my sight.”

She heard Baelish hurry away and the door shut. A seabird cried and dove into the mist.

Then Jaime was on his knees before her, his hands gentle on her cheeks as he shushed her, his nose brushing hers as he pulled her closer. She sniffled, only aware that she was crying when he wiped a tear from her cheek, and clutched at his sleeves.

“It will be all right, my brave, beautiful girl, I promise,” he whispered, kissing away another tear.

Sansa sobbed once. “Why are you so different than them?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Because I love you.”

Fresh tears welled up and she wrapped her arms around his neck, crying freely for the first time in far too long.

Jaime just held her. Perhaps loving him back didn’t make her doomed after all.

 

Jaime stalked through the corridors of the Eyrie, his eyes glittering with malicious intent. He had restrained himself with great difficulty when Sansa confronted the human maggot, Petyr Baelish. She was the victim, and she deserved the chance to confront the man who had raped her without Jaime’s well-meaning but unwelcome interference. So, much as it pained him, he had refrained from beating Baelish to a bloody pulp and throwing him off the balcony. He had also refrained from chasing after Baelish when Sansa was through with him and strangling him to death. Sansa needed him, so he stayed.

But now, Sansa was calm and spending some time with her mother now that they had decided to leave for Dorne the next day. She was in good hands, and now he could go and have a little confrontation of his own.

He stopped short when he reached the junction just outside the worm’s bedchamber. Bran and Rickon were creeping up to the closed door from a different direction. Bran had an axe and Rickon a mace, both of them probably stolen from one of the antique displays on the walls. He had a pretty good idea of what they were doing and why. He stepped out with his arms folded, trying not to smile.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Both young men jumped and turned to him with guilty expressions. Rickon tried to hide the mace behind his back.

Bran licked his lips. “We, uh…. Well, we, uh…. We didn’t _mean_ to overhear, but the window was open….”

Jaime didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about.

“And you decided murder was the best response?”

“Do you have a better idea?” Rickon demanded.

He considered. “Actually…. Did anyone else overhear?”

They shook their heads, shrugging a little. Not that they were aware of.

“Good. Then here is my plan--go and tell your parents.”

They exchanged disbelieving glances.

“That’s your brilliant plan?” Bran said, narrowing his eyes. “Tattletale to our mummy and daddy?”

“Why didn’t _you_ tell them?” Rickon added, jutting out his chin.

Jaime rolled his eyes. “I’m a Lannister. Baelish is one of your mother’s childhood friends. Who would your parents believe? But if _you_ told them…. They’re not likely to let this pass.”

The young men exchanged another glance, this one determined, and headed back the way they’d come. Jaime shot a last glance at Baelish’s closed door before following suit.

His work here was done, and he hadn’t even had to punch anyone.

 

They left for Dorne the next day, but not before saying farewell to her family. After the cold reception he had received on arrival, Jaime was startled to find himself being hugged by a teary-eyed Lady Stark. She took his hands in hers when she pulled away, her eyes locked on his.

“You take care of our girl,” she said fiercely.

He nodded solemnly. “I will, Lady Stark. I promise.”

She looked at him and her eyes softened for a moment. He was shocked speechless when she gave him a motherly kiss on the cheek.

“Take care of yourself, too,” she said and patted his cheek where she had just kissed him.

Jaime stared at her for a moment with his mouth open, unable to hide how dazed and vulnerable he felt. He had been so young when his mother died, and none of his family was particularly concerned about him. He was unaccustomed to gentle motherly concern.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t like it.

“Thank you, my lady, I will,” he mumbled, his face heating.

Catelyn just smiled and moved on to hugging Sansa, but the shocks weren’t over. Ned Stark stepped up next, his hand out. Jaime shook it purely on instinct because his brain was still reeling.

“I still don’t like Lannisters,” Ned said gruffly. “But you make my daughter happy, and that’s good enough for me. You ever hurt her, and I’ll hang your bits from the gates of Winterfell.”

Jaime felt the curious impulse to smile and cringe at the same time. “Fair enough.”

Robb was next, and he didn’t so much shake Jaime’s hand as grab it, hauling Jaime up against him to speak low in his ear.

“I know that the rumours about you and your sister are more than just rumours.”

Jaime shivered, suppressing the urge to pull away. “ _Were_. Past tense,” he corrected, equally low. “That’s been over a long time now. Sansa is my one and only.”

Robb released him, smiling tightly. “Good, then. But we understand each other, I hope?”

He gave a single, sharp nod. Robb didn’t suspect, he _knew_ , somehow--and Jaime was forewarned if he betrayed Sansa.

Bran and Rickon piled on him in a hug before he had quite recovered from that.

“You were right, telling our parents was a good idea,” Bran whispered.

“They won’t tell us what they’re up to, but they’re really angry,” Rickon added.

“So whatever it is, it will be way better than murder.”

Jaime chuckled and hugged them back briefly. Sansa finished her goodbyes while he collected their suitcases, and they walked down to the car with Sansa’s arm linked through his.

“Your family is very huggy,” he said brightly. “I like it.”

She laughed.

 

Sansa enjoyed showing Jaime around Dorne. The way his face lit with awe and excitement at every new thing made her see it afresh all over again. The spices and music in the air at the markets was magical and exotic again, and the architecture of the buildings was beautiful again. As much as it made her roll her eyes at herself, the sky even seemed bluer.

And Jaime himself was fun to be with. He had been deprived his whole life, and now he was jumping in with both feet. He wanted to try everything and eat everything and go everywhere. One of the first things he did was buy a gaudy yellow Dornish style shirt and change into it, and he bought every food the vendors shoved at him at the open air market. He even went back for more when he bought and ate a stuffed pepper so hot it made him cry.

“You sure you won’t try one?” he teased, coughing, when the second one made him go just as red and teary-eyed as the first.

Sansa giggled and handed him the bottle of milk she’d bought while he was back at the pepper seller’s stall. “No, thank you!”

She couldn’t remember ever laughing as much as she did with him.

And she couldn’t remember being physically comfortable with anyone the way she was with him. Her friends in school had described her as stand-offish, and they were right. An arm innocently slung around her shoulders made her skin crawl--but not with Jaime. She found herself initiating contact just as often as he did, sliding her hand into his or her arm around his waist.

It probably had something to do with how he didn’t pressure her. Whenever he went to touch her in any way, the first brush was light, questioning--is this okay? When she either met him halfway or didn’t pull away, then he would proceed with confidence. If she shifted away, he withdrew with no sign of offence or hurt feelings.

He hadn’t even kissed her yet--not really. He had kissed her cheek several times now, but never a _real_ kiss. They had separate rooms. She definitely couldn’t complain about feeling rushed.

But they had been in Sunspear a week when she started to realise she wanted _more_. It was hot in Dorne, as the winter lost its grip faster here than in the rest of Westeros, so they had gone down to the beach to cool off. Sansa only waded, unwilling to remove her sundress and expose her bikini-clad torso, but Jaime stripped completely naked, since it was allowed on that particular beach and he hadn’t packed any swimming trunks. She giggled and turned her red face away, pulling down the brim of her big floppy sunhat.

“We need to buy you some!” she squealed, thoroughly scandalised and loving it.

Jaime just laughed and stretched theatrically, flexing his muscles for her benefit, before scampering off into the water. She shoved his clothes into her beach bag with a wide grin that only grew when she spotted a couple of women admiring him and laughing.

“He’s my boyfriend,” she said, delighted, and waded into the shallows to watch him.

He cavorted and splashed in the deeper water, only to run back to her once in a while, clutching some new treasure that he pressed into her hand.

“This is for you,” he panted, grinning, before running back out to swim some more.

There were shells and pretty rocks and a sand dollar. Sansa dried them on her skirt before tucking them in the beach bag, touched and pleased by his excitement. He returned for good after about an hour, splashing alongside her in the shallows until she found an unoccupied shady spot under a tree for them to rest for a while. He helped her lay the blanket she’d brought on the hot sand under the tree and then flopped down on his back.

“I haven’t been swimming in the ocean since we lived at Casterly Rock,” he said when she sat primly beside him, wiping her feet on a towel. “At King’s Landing, it’s not safe with all of the shipping traffic and currents--well, and the industrial pollution, probably. I sometimes went swimming in the pool in the Red Keep, because it’s good exercise, but it wasn’t the same.”

She smiled at him, lounging with his hands behind his head, speckled with sand and water, his hair spiky and dripping. His eyes sparkled when he looked up at her.

“It was too cold to swim at Winterfell,” she said, setting her hat aside and shaking out her curls. “And there aren’t many modern conveniences in the castle, but Winter Town isn’t far and there’s a public indoor swimming pool there, so that’s where I learned to swim. I didn’t set foot in the ocean until I came here to Dorne for art school. It wasn’t my idea, but I’d made a few friends and I didn’t want to lose them by being a coward, so I went along. I was terrified that a shark was going to eat me.”

He burst out laughing, and when she playfully slapped his arm, he hooked his arm around her waist and hauled her onto his chest. She found herself straddling his waist, her breasts pressed to his chest. His hands were loosely gripping her hips. Her dress had ridden up on one side and his fingers touched bare skin.

She suddenly felt a shift, the humour fading as she felt heat in her centre. Her eyes dropped to his lips and she shivered as she realised that she wanted to taste them.

He stopped laughing immediately when she shivered.

“Sansa? Are you all right?”

She felt him shift like he was going to slide her off of him. Instinct propelled her forward to stop him, and she pressed her lips against his. She had no clear idea of what she was doing, but she tried her best anyway. He was frozen for only a couple of seconds anyway, and then he was eagerly kissing her back, guiding the kiss into a gentler, more successful rhythm. She lost herself in the taste of him for a while. It was better than she had imagined.

Jaime was the one who broke away for air, looking embarrassed.

“I think you should hand me a towel,” he said quietly, avoiding her eyes.

Sansa sat up straight, puzzled. “Why? What’s--”

Then she felt something hard poking her backside when she sat back. She twisted her torso to look--and scrambled off of him, tossing her towel over his groin, her face burning.

“Sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t--I shouldn’t have--”

“Sansa, it’s fine,” he said, pulling her elbow until she relaxed beside him. “Really. It just means I enjoyed kissing you…a lot. Nothing’s going to happen. Okay?”

She bit her lip, gesturing toward his erection, still tenting the towel she’d thrown over it. “But aren’t you angry that I made you…and I’m not going to…?”

He smiled crookedly. “Of course not. I enjoyed kissing you very much. It made me happy. The only reason I stopped you was because I didn’t want to come all over your pretty sundress on a public beach.”

She blushed again, lying down beside him now that she was sure he wasn’t upset. “Really? Just from…?”

He just turned on his side, careful to keep the towel from slipping, and nudged his nose against hers. “Mm-hmm.”

She grinned, feeling a bit of a flutter in her stomach. “But you want to…you know…with me, don’t you?”

“Eventually,” he said dismissively. “When you’re ready and feel comfortable with it.”

“What if I never do?” she asked with mock seriousness.

“Then I see a lot of cold showers in my future.”

She let out a peal of laughter then, cuddling closer to him and lacing her fingers with his.

“I’ve never had this before, you know,” she said with shy pleasure. “A _normal_ relationship.”

Jaime kissed her knuckles. “Neither have I. My only relationship up to now was with…with Cersei,” he admitted softly, with visible difficulty, his gaze dropping with shame, his erection gone as suddenly as it had come. “I thought I loved her, but…she always controlled everything between us. I don’t know if I’ll ever really know how much of it was me and how I really felt, and how much of it was her manipulating me into doing and saying and feeling what she wanted me to. She was the one who started it, I know that….

“Not that that excuses my part in it, but…I didn’t understand, at first. Father wouldn’t talk to us about that sort of thing, and he forbade anyone to teach us about it. Said it wasn’t…appropriate. So when I got my first erection, I was twelve and I had no idea what was happening. I just knew I felt excited, but it was sort of painful. Cersei found me trying to…make it go away.”

She frowned, confused. “You were masturbating?”

He chuckled without mirth. “That would be the normal version. No, I was scared of what my father might do to me if he found out, so I tried to tape it down with duct tape….”

She winced. “Ooh. Ow.”

“Yeah. She peeled it off for me, took me to the bathroom, and showed me how to jerk off. I don’t know how she knew about those things when Tyrion and I were so clueless, but at the time I was just grateful and in awe of her. She saved me, I thought at the time. And it wasn’t so frightening when she explained it and showed me how to take care of it when it popped up. So, naturally, when she came to me a year later and told me that there was an ache between her legs like the ache I got in the mornings and she needed my help to make it go away, I was eager to help my dear, sweet twin in any way I could to repay her for helping me and show her how much I loved her. Then, ‘helping’ her turned out to be immensely pleasurable for me as well, and that was the beginning of that. All she had to do was beckon.

“By the time I learned what we were actually doing and that it was wrong, I was already deeply involved with her, and the fact that it was illegal was hardly going to stop us. Or her, I should say. She had all the control. If I did anything to displease her, she would withhold her _favours_ , at least until I begged sufficiently for forgiveness. And it all had to be a secret, I couldn’t touch her or kiss her publicly, no matter how much I wanted to. So this is much better,” he said, grinning at her and bumping the end of his nose against hers. “It’s not about who’s in control, and it’s not some big secret, so I feel like I can actually relax and be myself with you.”

She smiled back into his joyful gaze. “Me, too. The…with Baelish, it wasn’t actually a relationship, but before our engagement night, Ramsay actually acted fairly normal, but I always felt uneasy if I said or did something he didn’t approve of--like he would withdraw his regard for me and I would lose him. Of course, if I had known what he was really like, I would have run away a lot sooner, but I didn’t know. I should have, though. I felt so stupid afterward, like I should have--”

“Hey,” he interrupted, gentle but firm, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “You’re not stupid. How could you have known? At the time, nobody knew--or if they did, they weren’t saying anything. It wasn’t your fault. The only people to blame are Ramsay and his friends--and Petyr Baelish. Not you.”

Her smile returned despite everything. “And with you, I feel like everything I do is perfect, even if you don’t like it. You love me anyway.”

“That’s because I do,” he said tenderly. “I love you. There’s nothing you could do or say to make me stop loving you--it’s far too late for that now.”

She touched his face, tracing over his brow and the crinkles at the corner of his eye. “I promise not to be like Cersei. I won’t keep you from being with me just because you did something I don’t like--assuming you ever do something I don’t like.”

His eyes were dancing with happiness. “Oh, I will eventually. I’m told I can be extremely annoying,” he said cheerfully.

“That’s true,” she said with mock thoughtfulness. “I still haven’t forgiven you for the rotten banana in my closet…. And then there was the time you ordered a truckload of balloons and had the servants stuff them in my bathroom. That was pretty annoying. What did I like about you again…?”

He looked sheepish. “I…may have gone overboard in my attempts to get your attention.”

That brought Sansa up short, blinking. “I beg your pardon?”

He squirmed a little, flicking a bug off the blanket to avoid her gaze. “I kept doing things like that to try to get your attention, at least until I got locked in my room. I was the one who asked Father to hire you to paint our portrait, but you spent most of your time talking to Tyrion when you weren’t working, and I thought if you got angry enough, you would speak to me alone, at least for a while…. Tyrion is so funny and smart that I knew I didn’t stand a chance of getting your attention when he was around. But every time I did something like that, you just went and laughed about it with Tyrion…. I couldn’t think of anything else, though. I lost all hope of getting to talk to you by myself when Father had me confined to my room--but of course, I had completely overlooked the pity angle.”

She shook her head slowly in disbelief. “You were jealous! You were jealous of Tyrion and me hanging out so much at the parties!”

Jaime reddened. “Well, yes…. I was the one who liked your work,” he added in a sullen tone. “I thought it was unfair that he was the one who would get to date you--he doesn’t even like art!”

She burst out laughing at his pouty expression and tone, a full belly laugh that felt good. He looked torn between being pleased and embarrassed when she calmed and wiped the tears from her eyes.

“Oh, Jaime, I do love you,” she giggled, and kissed him again.

He kissed back enthusiastically.

 

Rain was a rare thing in Dorne, but it did happen occasionally. It was heavy enough that even Jaime had to admit that their plans for a hike would have to be postponed. They ate breakfast in the hotel restaurant and returned to Sansa’s room. She seemed happy, shooting him smiles occasionally and working on one of her commissions.

Jaime, however, found himself unexpectedly restless--and a little upset, though he couldn’t account for why. He was with Sansa, which made him _very_ happy, and he was in one of the most beautiful places he’d ever seen. They had spent every day exploring or out doing something; this was the first time they had been trapped inside since leaving Westeros.

_Trapped_. That was it. He felt trapped. Being trapped with Sansa was better than being trapped alone, but it was still trapped. He had just escaped that feeling, and the recurrence was too soon. It made his heart pound and his breaths come shallow.

“Jaime, open the window and put your head out,” Sansa said suddenly, her voice sharp with urgency.

He obeyed. The warm, damp air felt easier to breathe, somehow, than the cold air conditioning, and he slowly relaxed, releasing tension he hadn’t even realised was building as he paced. Rain spattered on his head, but he didn’t care.

She lightly touched his shoulder, sitting on the sill beside him.

“Sorry,” he murmured, unable to look at her.

“Don’t be,” she said softly. “I don’t blame you. Your father did this to you.”

He left the window open, but turned to sit beside her, rather than kneeling with his upper body hanging out over the street. She was right, he knew. He had been confined to his room in the Red Keep too many times over the years, for long periods at a time. Of all the ways his family had misused him over the years, being locked in a room with nothing to do and no one to talk to and no possible escape was the worst. He had borne it cheerfully enough at the time--because he had to, he had no choice. But now he had tasted freedom, _real_ freedom, and he feared going back to that.

“You can go for a walk if you need to,” she went on, and though she was sympathetic, he saw no pity or disdain in her eyes. “You can borrow my umbrella.”

He tried to smile. “That’s very generous, but I wouldn’t want to leave you alone.”

She shrugged, giving him a much more successful smile. “Oh, don’t worry about me, I’ll be painting, so I’ll be just fine.”

“If you’re sure….”

A walk sounded like water in the desert at the moment. He craved it. His only regret was that she didn’t seem interested in accompanying him.

“Absolutely.”

“Okay then.”

She dug her umbrella out for him with a smile and returned to her canvas while he put his shoes on.

“I need to get this done before Lord Frey gets any older and uglier,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“You should paint me,” he jested, putting on his most arrogant expression. “It would do you good to have an _attractive_ model for once.”

She didn’t rise to the bait. “I already painted you. But I wouldn’t be averse to painting you again.”

He dropped his keys, whipping around excitedly. “You painted me? When did you paint me? You didn’t tell me!”

“Well, I painted you for the big family portrait, and this was just a small watercolour on paper, so I didn’t think it was a big deal,” she said coolly, but her cheeks were pink.

He tried not to hover. “Can I see it? Please?”

She rolled her eyes, sighing, and picked up the big portfolio of sketches and smaller paintings she carried around in her bag with her camera and first aid kit. He ignored her irritation, practically bouncing on his toes. Near the middle, she found the paper she was looking for and held it up for him to take.

Jaime felt his jaw drop but made no attempt to pick it up. Sansa had painted him on the old stone docks at King’s Landing, with the water sparkling in the sunrise behind him. He was smiling at some point beyond and to the left of the viewer, dressed all in blue. He looked relaxed and happy--and though he had seen and taken far too many pictures of himself over the years, this was the first time he had seen one that made him feel truly beautiful.

Because _Sansa_ thought he was beautiful.

His throat felt thick. “When did you do this?”

She didn’t look up from painting Lord Frey’s floppy lips. “In Braavos, after we talked and I told you I couldn’t sleep so I was going to paint. I…was confused about us, about…how I felt about you. So I turned my brain off and just worked. When I was finished, I found I had painted you…that’s when I knew that I loved you.”

He stared at her for a moment before tossing the painting down and leaning across the canvas to kiss her.

 

Jaime traced patterns on her bare arm while she lounged against him. The train ride from Sunspear to the end of the Arm of Dorne was fairly long, since the tracks had never been upgraded to handle express trains, but after his minor panic attack in the hotel room, Sansa wasn’t especially eager to force him onto a plane. He had expressed anxiety about the idea several times even before his claustrophobic episode, so she had cancelled their flight to Braavos the next day, declaring that the scenery was better the old-fashioned way. He had agreed enthusiastically to the change in plans without questioning that explanation. They would ferry from island to island until they reached the mainland and resumed train travel.

“I still need to find a job,” he said suddenly, his breath warm on the top of her head.

She smiled. “You don’t like being a kept man?” she teased.

His arm tightened around her waist and he kissed her head. “I love being kept by you. But I want to feel useful for once.”

She patted his arm. “I understand, I was only joking. I think we should hire you a career counsellor. You say the problem is that you don’t know how to do anything, but I think the problem is more a case of having too many choices and not knowing where to start. A career counsellor can help you narrow down your options by eliminating things you don’t have the skills for or are simply uninterested in.”

“And then I just need to find a company that will hire a man in his forties with no experience,” he said glumly. “Except at changing my clothes and smiling for the camera. I’m going to end up a model. Or a janitor.”

Sansa twisted on the seat and manoeuvred until she was straddling his lap, poking one stern finger into his chest.

“ _No_ , you need to find a company that will hire _Jaime Lannister_. I know it’s not a reality you want to acknowledge, but your name carries some weight. All that time spent smiling for the camera in King’s Landing did have one very distinct advantage, whether your father intended it or not, and that is that _Jaime Lannister_ is a brand,” she explained carefully, watching his face for a negative reaction. “Not _House Lannister_ , but _Jaime_ Lannister. People know you--or at least they know the ‘you’ that your father marketed. They know your face. If _you_ work for a company, that company gets an automatic boost in recognition, and plenty of companies are going to want that no matter what field you go into.”

He wrinkled his nose at being called a “brand,” but he perked up nonetheless.

“Do you really think so?”

She kissed the end of his nose. “I know so. Everyone loves you. Even my family has decided you’re pretty okay.”

He chuckled, sliding his hands around her back to pull her more firmly against him. “High praise indeed.”

“Considering how much they hate Lannisters for their, ahem, _shady_ political methods, it’s _very_ high praise. Although you still need to meet Arya, and given that she’s been putting gagging faces on all of my Instagram selfies with you, she might be a little more difficult to win over,” she said with a wicked grin.

Jaime pretended to be worried. “She’s the water dancer in the family, right? Lots of skill with and easy access to pointy objects?”

“Yep.”

“Remind me to bring her something pointy so she’ll like me.”

She laughed. “You can try, but even if she likes you, she won’t admit it. She’s madly in love with her friend Gendry, but she still hasn’t admitted to anything more than thinking that he’s not completely vile.”

He started to laugh, but his phone rang at that moment. They both jumped, as no one had called them since they left the Vale, but after a second of surprise, she climbed back off of his lap without being asked so he could check it.

“Oh! It’s Tyrion,” he said, and accepted the call when she smiled. “Hello?”

She half-listened as they discussed Jaime’s belongings which were still in storage at the Red Fork, where Tyrion had found a good long-term rate at short notice. Most of her attention was on the stack of magazines she had bought for the trip and ignored up to now. A few of them were social magazines, and her face reddened as she pulled them out.

She and Jaime were _plastered_ all over the covers of all of them, with cheesy headlines about love at last or getting steamy in Dorne. The steamy one was appropriate, at least, because it featured a picture of them making out on the beach, right before Jaime had got a very visible erection--either that or they had edited it out. Most of them were more…tame, like the two of them holding hands in the market, but she was still embarrassed that she hadn’t realised they were being followed and photographed.

And given weird “couple” names--at least two of the magazines were already referring to them collectively as “Jansa.”

“Wait, Father’s happy about _what_?!” Jaime choked, drawing her attention back to him. He snatched one of the magazines off of her lap and paled. “I see it. Uh-huh. But I don’t understand why this would make him happy? Or anyone besides me and Sansa, for that matter.”

She watched him listen, curiously calm now that he was so obviously upset.

“Well, I don’t know, I haven’t asked her yet. No, we didn’t notice before. Because we had better things to do than read magazines!” He went bright red at Tyrion’s response to that. “No, not _that_ yet, I meant…. Well, because, we’re not ready. No, I don’t think getting wasted is the answer. How many of your problems has it solved? Fair enough. Okay, but don’t tell Father we spoke. I don’t care if he markets us for a new image for the family, but I’m not coming back to King’s Landing, and if he knows we have contact, he might try to get me to come back. Honestly? Probably never. I spent over thirty years of my life there, and I would be quite happy to never see it again.

“Huh? Braavos. Because I want to see it and Sansa’s sister lives there and wants to meet me--possibly to kill me, her intent is yet to be determined. Yes, she could. She’s a water dancer, they specialise in stabbing. I don’t know how. No, Father wouldn’t let me take self-defence classes with you and Cersei, remember? Because you had to walk there after lessons and he didn’t want me out on the streets, or so he said. It’s possible that Father thinks I’m made of crystal and will shatter if stressed. What? Oh, yes, you can talk to her, just a second.”

He held the phone out without meeting her eyes. “Tyrion wants to talk to you. He says I’m ridiculous.”

“You are ridiculous,” she teased, accepting the phone, but her concern grew when he merely turned back to the magazine he’d filched. “Hi, Tyrion.”

“I take it he’s not taking it well,” Tyrion said with a sigh.

She regarded Jaime sadly. “No, not so far.”

“And how are you? Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m….” She shrugged, hugging her knees to her chest. “I mean, it’s a little strange, but it doesn’t really bother me.”

“Good.” He sounded genuinely relieved. “I imagine you’ll have to put up with a lot of prying if you stay with Jaime.”

“There’s no if,” she corrected him tartly. “I’m in this for the long haul.”

Tyrion paused. “I’m glad. Jaime deserves someone like you. He’s had to put up with his lying, scheming family using him for their own ends for far too long--it’s about time he had someone who genuinely cares about him and is loyal to him. Someone who won’t use him and hurt him.”

“You never used him,” she said softly, conscious of Jaime listening.

His laugh was bitter. “If you knew how many times I used him as a shield and a spear against our father and our sister, you might not say that.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say to that.

“Was he all right before this?”

She bit her lip and glanced at Jaime, but he was still staring resolutely at the magazine. “Yes, it’s been great except for one day. It was raining, so we couldn’t leave the hotel room, and Jaime started to get upset….”

Tyrion sucked in a breath, clearly surprised. “Oh….”

“It was okay, though. We worked it out. He was okay after he went for a walk,” she hurried to reassure him. “I’m taking good care of him, I promise.”

“I have every faith in you,” he said soberly. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

They rang off and Sansa turned to Jaime, winding her arm around his and pressing against him.

“Hey.”

He grunted, flipping the page. The two of them sharing a fizzy drink out of the same glass with crazy straws was visible beside some very bad font.

“Jaime, talk to me.”

He didn’t answer, his mouth screwing up.

“Come on,” she said, bordering on whining, and nudged him with her knee. “I’m holding your phone hostage until you talk to me.”

He finally looked at her and she was taken aback by the shame in his eyes.

“I’m sorry about all this,” he said, sighing. “I never meant for you to get involved in this whole….”

He trailed off, waving a hand toward the spread of invasive photographs.

Sansa smiled, brushing her nose against his. “You don’t need to be sorry. I had a suspicion that this would happen sooner or later when I decided to get involved with you. Granted, I was hoping it wouldn’t be until after the honeymoon, but--”

Just like that, he was wearing the biggest grin she had ever seen, thrumming with excitement.

“You could see yourself marrying me?”

She shrugged a little, but somehow, she found herself unable to even pretend to play it cool. The words “I don’t care” had never been more untrue.

“Well…yes,” she said, her face heating. “That’s what a lot of people do when they’re in love, isn’t it?”

Jaime threw the magazine aside and pulled her into his lap again. “It absolutely is.”

She kissed him back when his lips met hers with more enthusiasm than technique, warmed through at his unbridled joy at their theoretical honeymoon.

“So where do you want to live when we get married?” he panted when they broke for air.

Sansa laughed.


End file.
